Chapter XXXIX
XXXIX
STAY ALIVE.
The gladiator appeared between a plaster boulder and a fake tree, walking in a way that betrayed his panic and confusion. Was he angry at the prospect of fighting a woman?
She sized him up out of the corner of her eye as she reached for a pink rose and held it to her nose.
He was tall. Broad shouldered and well-built.
Armored with the manica, greaves strapped to both legs, and small round buckler that hailed him a hoplomachus—though his helmet was a simple, smooth dome with small eyeholes.
The wrong helmet for a hoplomachus, which meant he was strong, probably a good fighter, and they had handicapped his vision to give her an advantage.
She, on the other hand, had no helmet, giving her full range of vision—and no protection.
She would have to draw on every ounce of endurance she had. His impaired sight would be her one advantage over him. Her pulse ticked faster.
Beneath the layer of stained sand, the wooden floor of the stage rumbled from the machinery below, preparing for something bigger than this fight. She was only meant to keep the crowds entertained while the stage was set for the main event. The humiliation and defeat of her people.
What was her life worth? A few moments’ distraction between sets?
She swallowed down the burn of betrayal and tried to fan it into anger.
It lay at the bottom of her belly, an ember of sadness that did nothing to fuel her limbs.
Her gaze shifted to the crowd, the roar of excitement lowering to a grumble at the slow start of this match.
After all this time, after all the world had been through, was this really the height of civilization?
To eat sweets and drink wine while slaves fought each other to death?
Was this the mark of a Christian empire?
Of Christian citizens, who either partook in the spectacle or turned too-pious eyes away from it?
The low cacophony of the crowd slowly gathered into a unified pulse, a throbbing beat, begun by a single person and spreading until the whole arena was chanting her name in unison.
“Am-a-zon! Am-a-zon!”
If one person could affect a crowd like this, was it so far-fetched to believe one person could change bigger things? She sucked in a steadying breath, possibility beginning a slow swell.
Yes.
She took one step toward her opponent, and then another.
Wind roared in her ears as she ran at the gladiator, the lines of well-defined muscle coming into view with a familiar clarity that struck her just in time.
Injustice burned in her throat with the realization that she’d been wrong about the game masters.
They had not meant for her to die in this match. They’d meant for her to kill Felix.
She raised her gladius, and brought it crashing down on her opponent’s sword.
The clang of metal on metal brought the stands to instant silence.
Arm reverberating from the blow, Adel took a step back and looked at her blade.
They’d given her another false gladius. But why?
If they’d wanted her to kill him? The blade was still intact, but wobbling.
It would remain whole for a few more blows, but not many.
Felix was slow to react to the attack, grunting and groaning, sounds muffled by the crowd and the helmet. His chest rose and fell with a quickness that was going to leave him fainting in the sand if he didn’t calm down.
Sand shifted beneath her feet and Adel leaped aside as a trapdoor dropped into the hypogeum.
She blocked two half-hearted strikes and spun, forcing Felix to move as a plaster boulder rolled onto the arena floor, followed by several bushes.
More trapdoors lowered, more boulders emerged.
Posts shot up from the ground, climbed by slaves and topped with crowns of palm branches to form trees.
In moments, she was surrounded by a faux forest.
The stands rumbled with excitement.
Felix was panicking. She swung and he miscalculated, her blade coming down on the padded manica covering his forearm. He grunted and jerked back.
“Don’t—” Adel reached toward him—as if to what? Help him? She yanked her hand away. “They will hate you if you shrink back.”
He renewed his grip, and came at her again. She sidestepped the swing and twisted behind him, kicking the back of his leg. He stumbled forward and spun, flinging his gladius toward her. Her own sword met it with a clatter. The blade rattled, loose against the grip.
Something was changing in the crowd, murmurs that sounded of boredom. She felt the shift as surely as one felt the chill of the sun dropping behind a cloud.
Another trapdoor dropped somewhere behind her, but this time, instead of scenery, a rumbling snarl emerged, lifting the hair on her neck.
Adel spun in time to see a tawny body hurl itself from the darkness of the hypogeum and land with a spray of sand.
A scream lodged in her throat, strangled into a sharp cry as Felix grabbed her arm and threw her behind him.
Sand bit into her knee and hip, burned against her elbow.
A chain clicked.
She gripped her sword and pushed to her feet as the lion jerked to a halt, held at bay by an iron chain. It paced only a few feet away, swiping at Felix. The crowd was roaring now. On its feet.
She and Felix edged farther from the lion as they slowly circled each other, panting, feet swishing the sand. Neither making a move toward the other.
What did the game master expect now? For them to fight each other still? Or the lion? Both?
Tears burned in her eyes, in the bridge of her nose, at the injustice of it all. To be killed by an animal was the worst humiliation Rome could inflict. How had she gone from the most beloved gladiatrix to this? How could she have lived this life and expected anything more?
God forgive me.
The screaming mob in the stands had never loved her. They’d only been a cheap distraction from the truest Love that had never left her. The One who died for her, sent friends to pursue her heart, rescue her. If that was not evidence of the love she’d craved, then what was?
Felix shuffled back a step and turned as a deep thud and snarl sounded behind him.
The game master must be getting impatient. The scene was set for the next battle.
Time to end this.
Felix shouted something indiscernible from the confines of his helmet, his body tensing toward her as a chain rattled out of the trapdoor.
Adel pressed her lips together, tears threatening, anger rising at what she was made to do for sport, for fun. For an afternoon’s conversation that would be forgotten by the next week. She angled the blade and thrust as Felix lunged forward.
Her sword met his ribs and disappeared.
A sharp pain bowed Felix forward, but not before he caught the glimmer of terror and anger etched in Adel’s face.
He’d done his best to defend her blows, to make the match last without attacking outright.
And what did any of it matter? The beasts circled, tethered for now, but that could change in a moment.
And yet, this had been the plan all along.
Adel was the victor, wasn’t she? He dropped his gladius and felt for her blade, grip protruding from his ribcage.
“I’m sorry, Felix.” Her words emerged broken and cracked. She released the blade into his hands and stumbled back a step, arms sagging at her sides, chest heaving.
Air. He needed air.
Knees shaking in a way that betrayed the coming fall, he reached up and clawed at the leather strap beneath his chin.
Warmth dribbled from the hand pressed against his side.
Adel stepped forward, freeing the strap and ripping the helmet from his head in a motion that sent the crowd cheering.
It dropped to the sand and rolled against his ankle.
He should be able to breathe now but the air seemed too thick for his lungs.
Adel swayed. He reached for her, as if to steady her, but fell to his knees instead.
She hit the sand beside him, her arms wrapping around his chest as he turned to nothing but weight.
Her hands shook as she touched his side, stroked his face.
“Why is there so much blood? Felix.” A thread of panic laced her words.
The gag prevented him from speaking, from sucking in a full breath.
She cradled his head in her lap and choked back a sob as her shaking fingers worked ineffectively at the knots.
Had the lions retreated? She needed to leave him, stand and raise her sword as victor.
This would not help her. He tried to push her away but she persisted, bending over him, tears coursing down her cheeks.
The knot gave beneath her prying fingers and he drew in a short breath. Coughed.
“I’m sorry.” Adel glanced at the gladius, then drew her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes rolling and fluttering slightly.
“Adel. Look at me. Look at me.” He reached up and cupped her chin, tilting it up until her gaze met his. “We did it. You’re safe. You’re the victor. Don’t tell me the most vicious gladiatrix in Rome wobbles at a little bit of blood.”
She swallowed hard, her chest beginning to rise and fall in rapid breaths. “You should not be bleeding at all.”
“Shhh. It’s nothing.” He winked, reached up and brushed his fingers over her cheek, exchanging her tears for a streak of red. He’d do it all again a dozen times if it meant she’d walk out of this arena alive and free. “Stand up. Take my sword. Claim your victory.”
Adel’s fingers firmed against the sides of his face and she hesitated only a fraction of a breath before she dropped her mouth to his.
The crowd roared, nearly but not quite drowning out the scrape of wheels and the rush of footsteps thudding toward them across the sand.
He reached up, fingers threading into her loose hair as he cradled the back of her head, drawing her closer, her lips warm and desperate against his.
She pulled away too soon, her thumbs sliding over the ridges of his cheekbones.
“Thank you.” Her voice broke. “For . . . for everything.”
“Go,” he whispered and gave her a gentle push. Adel rocked to her feet and scooped up his gladius, turning away from him and raising it over her head.
“Does this amuse you?” She raised her chin to the stands, shrieking in a voice that shook with anger and tears. “Is this what you wanted?”
The scraping of wheels stopped. Felix turned his head, noticing that the lions had been withdrawn.
Two arena slaves dropped the handles of a body cart and moved toward him, one at his shoulders and the other at his feet.
With more finesse and less gentleness than the undertakers, they heaved him atop it and jolted into a run, yanking and jerking the cart behind them.
Felix gritted his teeth against the pain and looked back, meeting Adel’s gaze as she held the gladius over her head in a pose of half-hearted victory.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going as planned after all. She would live, he would—
“You look awfully happy for a man about to have his throat cut.”
“She won,” Felix grunted, as they hit a bump, nearing the gate of death. “She’s safe.”
The slave laughed. “For a few minutes.”
“What do you mean?” His stomach dropped. “It’s mortal combat; the victor lives.”
The cart stopped just inside the gate, which clanged shut. “Didn’t you notice the battle scene they set up?” The slaves slouched against the wall, catching their breath and watching the arena.
The short one smeared a hand beneath his nose. “They’re reenacting Pollentia.”
Of course he knew that. But why it mattered for Adel, he couldn’t fathom.
“It’s a battle to the death, to execute all the Visigoth captives. The only victor today is Rome.”
His pulse began to pound, thundering in his ears, his limbs. No. That could not be true. Could not be happening. They had not planned for this. Execution of all Visigoth captives had not even been a consideration.
The blast of trumpets silenced the crowd and drew the cheers to a vibrating hum of anticipation.
Felix started to sit up but stopped when the blade in his ribs burned.
He flopped back, probing the spot with his fingers.
He’d not bothered telling Adel that the blade had not collapsed all the way.
She’d not have reacted well. Or, at least he hoped she wouldn’t.
He pulled the blade free and tossed it aside, pressing his palm over the spot.
The screech and clang of gates opening around the arena echoed into the death gate tunnel.
Unarmored gladiators spilled into the arena, dressed in furs and earthy shades of blue and green.
A small force of fighters who moved toward the center, movements sharp and tight with anger or fear.
On the opposite side of the arena, other gates swung open, a tripled force of gladiators—captives and slaves from other regions—spilled onto the sand to face the Visigoths, heavily armed and dressed in the brass and scarlet of Rome.
There would be a battle, but there was no way for the Visigoths to survive it.
“Let me back in.” Felix shoved to his feet.
The slaves jerked away from the wall. “You can’t go back.”
“I have to go back.” Ignoring the pain in his side, he pushed toward the gate. Where was Adel? He’d lost track of her in the flood of other fighters. Panic lit through him. There was no chance he was leaving her out there.
He rattled the gate. It didn’t budge.
“Let me back in.” Why did they bother securing a gate that only bodies were dragged through?
“You can’t go back. No one ever goes back.”
“Of course they don’t,” he snapped and spun. “Because they’re dead. Look at me! Do I look dead to you?” He dropped his voice and took a slow step toward them. “Open. That. Gate.”
Two sets of eyes widened and one of the men lifted a finger to point. “It’s not locked. Just lift the latch.”